


Tumblr Prompts

by mylifeinshadow



Category: The X-Files
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:15:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 11,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21685120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mylifeinshadow/pseuds/mylifeinshadow
Relationships: Fox Mulder & Dana Scully, Fox Mulder/Dana Scully
Comments: 4
Kudos: 29





	1. Jealousy

Jack Willis. Born 2/23/57

Your brow furrows as you read on, glasses perched on the bridge of your nose. It was a spur of the moment thing, really - call it a gut feeling. All you know is that your stomach twisted uncomfortably when your partner mentioned helping this guy on a case - a sensation that increased tenfold as you watched them embrace down in your basement office.

In any case, after the pair left for lunch, you found yourself heading towards the records department, seeking out personnel files for one Jack Willis. To your dismay, everything seems pretty standard. Born in Oregon, taught at the academy. Your eyes continue to scan the document, looking for something, anything, to pop out at you.

Time slips away and before you know it, a flash of red catches your eye, hair bouncing as Sully floats into the room. Panicked, you scurry to get all of the papers together, shoving them into the folder and slamming it shut.

Smooth, Mulder.

Risking a glance up, you’re greeted with the site of perfectly arched eyebrow, amusement written all over your partner’s face. 

“Whatcha got there, Mulder,” she teases, probably coming to the assumption that you pulled out one of those magazines that aren’t yours in her absence. You try to play along, a guilty grin forming on your lips.

“Oh, nothing. Just reviewing a case. How was lunch? All caught up?”

If the look on her face is any judge, you’re a terrible actor. Your attempt to change the subject is a miss, and those big blue eyes narrow to slits. Here you thought you were the profiler, but you find that Scully is the one studying you, leaving you to shift in your seat.

“Lunch was fine, Mulder. What file?” As she rounds the corner of the desk, you panic, attempting nonchalance as you sort the files on your desk. You reach to cover the evidence just as her hand slaps over it, her satisfaction obvious. You make a grab for it, but she pulls it further away with a smirk, trying to keep it just out of your reach.

“What do we have here?” The smug look on her face lasts only until she opens the file, blissfully unaware of your own anxiety. Her face falls, self satisfaction giving way to anger, and you brace for impact.

“Mulder?” Her voice is questioning, wavering, and you can see that she’s trying to keep her composure. Still, you can read the betrayal all over her face.

“Scully, I -”

It’s as if the sound of your voice alone fuels her anger, and she slams the file back into the desk.

” You what? Don’t trust my judgment? Want to keep tabs on me? Think I need protecting? I’m a big girl, Mulder. I knew what I was getting into when I joined the FBI, and I know what I’m getting into now. “

You groan, wiping a hand over your face. She’s beyond pissed, and when you look up, you find her staring back at you expectantly, hands on her hips.

"I just have a bad feeling about the guy. Listen, this is your case. I just want to know that I can trust this guy to have your back.”

You want to mention the way this guy looked at her; ask her about their history - but you don’t dare. Instead, you take the easy way out, standing before her and gently laying your hand on her shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Scully. I shouldn’t have - I know you can hold your own. I got, I don’t know, territorial, I guess. It won’t happen again.”

You offer her your most charming of smiles, and while she rolls her eyes, you can see that she looks much less tense than she did just moments ago. 

“Next time, just ask me,” she reasons, sitting back down at the desk as she flips through a file. “No need to go snooping through personnel when you can just use your big boy words.”

There’s humor in her eyes, and you pout your lower lip playfully in response as you sit back down. Still, you nod in agreement, folding your hands under your chin as you lean over the desk.

“Scully, am I a better shot than Jack Willis?”

She rolls her eyes again, but there’s a grin tugging at the corner of her lips - one that you can’t help but replicate as you put the personnel folder to the side and get back to your work.


	2. Believe

Gentle, yet calloused hands smooth their way over your skin, the smell of cocoa butter permeating the air. This is becoming an every night occurance. You’d shower, crawl into bed, and Mulder would be waiting with a jar of cocoa butter.

“I hear it’s good for stretch marks,” he’d said the first time, with no further explanation. You hadn’t questioned him. You just let yourself lay back and enjoy his attentions.

It’s been nearly eleven weeks since then, and he hasn’t missed a single night. Fingertips make love to your skin, soft lips caressing the swell of your belly as he tells tales of flukemen and flying saucers.

Blame it on the hormones, but you find yourself entirely unable to hold back tears tonight. Your fingers weave the way through his hair as he grins up at you.

You sigh is shaky—watery, and the strokes of his fingers feel more questioning than soothing now.

“Why now,” you wonder aloud. It’s been eating at you for weeks now, but you hadn’t dared to put it into words, afraid you might jinx it all. But two fifty something year olds having a baby? The risks are plentiful.

He smiles, as if completely unbothered. As if he knows without a shadow of a doubt that everything is going to turn out fine. As if anything had ever not been difficult, if not impossible, for the two of you.

“Some things don’t need to be questioned, Scully. Some things are simply meant to be.”

You raise an eyebrow in his direction, wondering where he could be going with that train of thought.

“Are you talking about fate, Mulder?”

He shrugs.

“Fate. God’s will. Call it what you’d like.”

You can’t help but huff a laugh at that. What happened to the belief that everything was a conspiracy?

“You don’t even believe in God.”

He grin spreads as he works his way up the bed, pressing one, two, three soft kisses to your lips.

“No, I don’t. But I believe in you.”

It’s simple, but it’s enough. And with his arms wrapped around you, hands entwined and resting on the soft swell of your belly, you believe.


	3. Scared

“I’m scared.”

It’s not something he’d usually admit. Not something you’re use to hearing from him. He’s made a whole career out of deflecting actual feelings with humor. But his eyes are swimming, filled with anguish, and you can count on one hand the number of times you’ve seen him like this.

You swallow around the thick lump in your throat, fingers stroking his cheeks. He’s here. You have to keep reminding yourself of that fact, the image of his death haunting you. He’s here, the smoking man is dead, and William— a sob forces it’s way from your lips. You tried. You tried so fucking hard to make yourself feel better—to accept that William was nothing more than an experiment of powerful men. But in your heart remains a gaping hole, bleeding for the boy you never got to know, but loved all the same—for his father.

You feel it then, the gentle, almost prodding sensation within your brain. It’s indescribable, foreign. An art that has been perfected. And suddenly you know all that you need to. He’s alive. He’s okay. He doesn’t want you searching for him, endangering yourselves, endangering the baby. An image appears—sandcastles, you and Mulder wrapped up in each other, William and a little brown haired, blue eyed girl, digging through the sand and laughing. You can’t help it, you laugh too. The relief washes over you, and present day Mulder watches you with no small amount of concern. Like maybe you’ve finally lost it.

“No,” you tell him, hand seeking out his, fingers interlocking. A thumb strokes gently over his lips just before you press a kiss against them—the only way you’re currently capable of communicating with him.

“He’s okay,” you breathe against his mouth when you pull back.

“Scully…” His voice is quiet, cautious. You can’t blame him. It wouldn’t be the first time you allowed yourself to get caught up in wishful thinking.

“Trust me, Mulder.” It’s all you’ve ever asked of him.

“Always,” he acquiesces, with a soft squeeze to your hand.

You nod, resting your cheek against the warmth of his chest. He pulls you in, holds you as the sirens grow closer, and you whisper your last request.

“Take me home.”


	4. Shirt

The walk to the four cluttered walls you call an office is more strenuous than usual, your back protesting yet another night spent on the couch. It’s never your intention—not really, but somehow it’s always where you end up. You’ve always been such a light sleeper, waking up whenever Scully leaves for work in the morning. Oddly enough, not today, even with your sleep being so restless.

It all makes sense when a bang and a muttered curse comes from upstairs. It’s in your bones, this inherent need to protect her, and regardless of your back, you take the stairs two at a time. Years of experience have prepared you for so many different scenarios, but never this.

She’s more of a wreck than you’ve ever seen her. One thigh high on, an unzipped dress—as if she’d been dressing for work and just changed her mind. Clothes are strewn all over the floor, a suitcase sitting at the end of the bed. This isn’t Scully’s normal method of packing. She’s always so neat. So precise. Her suitcase is filled with crumpled up balls of clothes, like she’s looking to make a fast getaway.

“That’s my shirt,” is the only thing you can say, as your gray Knicks tee joins the pile of packed clothing. She meets your eyes, and all you see is tear streaks and exhaustion before she has her back turned to you again. You watch as a faded green tee follows the path of your Knicks shirt. “So is that.”

She’s ignoring you. And where you would usually feel indignation, you only feel confusion and numbness. A drawer slams, ridding you of your thoughts as she struggles to zip her luggage. You figure it’s a mixture of stress and frustration, as the tears begin to fall anew.

“Wait…”

She ignores you still, and you highly doubt she can even see what she’s doing, dim blue eyes swimming. Panic seizes your heart, which you swear you can feel dropping to your stomach even as you reach out to stop her actions.

“Scully, wait.”

Her efforts cease as you grab her wrist, and she immediately tenses. Just like that, you know exactly what this is. Your body grows cold, and all the emotions that you’ve locked away over the last year and a half suddenly come to the forefront.

She’s warned you this would happen. So many times. She fought, she screamed, she cried. And still you remained callous. Uncaring. She wouldn’t. She wouldn’t just leave you. Not after all you’ve been through.

You think back on the last conversation, a mere two days ago. Her eyes, resigned. There was no fight. There were no tears. She didn’t have it in her anymore.

“Dana,” you plead, voice cracking with emotion. “Dana, no.”

She sobs as she rips her her arm from your grasp. And as if that little interruption is all that she needed, she zips her suitcase effortlessly. You swallow against the lump that builds in your throat. Tears cloud your vision, but you can still make out the near gray hue of her formerly vibrant blue eyes. She’s lifeless, right in front of you. And you’ve done this to her.

Her fingers stroke your cheek, lips quivering as they press against the corner of your mouth. Her forehead rests against yours, tears mingling, and a choke sob escapes her parted lips.

“Take care of yourself, Mulder,” she manages. “Please. Take care of yourself.”

With that, she makes her escape. You want to yell, sob, plead with her to come back. You’ll try. You’ll do whatever it takes. But as the front door closes, all you can do is sink to the floor and allow the darkness to swallow you whole.


	5. Chapter 5

She’s always been so good at this part—the manipulation via seduction. You know what this is. It’s control, plain and simple. It’s the need to have you under her thumb. It’s been ten years, you’ve moved on. Someone else has you wrapped around their finger now. Someone who would never use it to her advantage.

You back off, clear your throat, and Diana leaves the observation room without another word. This isn’t over and you know it. Not by a long shot. You can’t help but have a soft spot for the woman you founded the x-files with, as complicating as it is. You take a moment, gather yourself before making your exit.

A flash of red catches your eye, and your heart sinks into your stomach. You close the door gently, greet her with an uneasy smile. Her lips quirk at the edges, just barely, and she looks as if she’s about to be sick.

“How long have you been standing there?”

Scully arches an eyebrow, a look that tells you everything you need to know. She hands over a file, something you imagine must be of the utmost importance if she’s bringing it to you here. Still, all you can focus on is her downtrodden expression, the emotion swimming in her eyes.

“It’s not what it looks like.”

She doesn’t want to hear it. Merely shakes her head and gestures to the folder in your grasp.

“It’s none of my business,” she finally manages, but the tone of her voice suggests otherwise.

“Isn’t it,” you retort, focused on that pink little tongue as it comes out to lick her lips. A nervous habit—one you’d caught onto almost immediately.

You don’t even realize how close you’ve become until you feel her breath on your lips, her hand on your chest. You’d expect her to be pushing, trying to keep you at a distance, but her hand simply rests there, her gaze on your lips.

If there’s a clearer sign in the world, you’ve never seen it, and you’re leaning in to sweep your lips over hers before you can consider the consequences. She sighs, presses her mouth tighter to your own, but she’s gone before you can properly taste her, ducking beneath your arm.

Your forehead falls against the wall, the clicking of her heels fading into the distance.


	6. Quiet

You’re not sure you can take another day of this.

Weeks upon weeks of background checks, a restless partner, fresh out of the hospital. His cheeks are still red with exposure, and already he has that restless look in his eyes—the same one that had him running off to the Bermuda Triangle without you.

His chair creaks as he rocks back and forth, his pencil tapping obnoxiously against his work station. You try to ignore the fact that he’s staring openly at you, try to tell yourself he’s just spacing out. Until it finally becomes too much and you’re giving up on whatever the hell it is you’ve been typing with a heavy sigh.

“You’re never this quiet,” you tell him, startling him out of his thoughts. His pencil goes flying across the room and you raise his sheepish grin with an arched eyebrow. “What’s wrong?”

“You left.” He all but blurts the words out, as if they’ve been sitting on his tongue all day.

“At the hospital,” he clarifies. “You left.”

Oh.

“Visiting hours were over,” you tell him slowly, carefully. You’re giving him an out, hoping he takes it. “You needed to rest.”

“But, I said I love you.”

Your heart leaps to your throat and you swallow against it. The words give you life, each and every cell ignited at once. For the first time since collapsing in his hallway months ago, you feel alive. Its blissful. Its suffocating. You’re choking on it.

“You also said Skinner was a Nazi.”

You don’t dare look at him—refuse to see the hurt on his face—refuse to let him see you waver. It’s not yet five but the air in here is suddenly heavy and you can’t bear it for another moment. You’re shrugging on your blazer and telling him to take the weekend to relax, even as your voice trembles and your legs shake. You’re out the door before you can see the slump of his shoulders, before you can choke on the lump in your throat.


	7. Assistance

There’s something to be said about the Pacific Northwest in October. Lush greenery giving way to fall foliage. The leaves are plastered to the ground, creating a rich array of color beneath your heels. The perfect scenery for horrific crimes, complete with a heavy rainfall. The puddles slosh around your ankles, destroying your sensible heels.

The good old reliable rental car broke down not two blocks away, and you’d both agreed to make a run for the motel. Light ran had turned into a total downpour, and the two of you had ducked into archway after archway to no avail. All that you’d accomplished was giving your partner-come-potential lover quite a show, your white blouse and cream colored lace bra below leaving little to the imagination.

You’d taken one hell of a leap recently, tension giving way to release in the form of a few very indecent kisses on his leather couch. Still, this wasn’t exactly the ideal time to bare everything to him. He’d been a gentleman though, draping his coat over your shoulders before you’d made your descent into the chaos.

His hand burns through the thin fabric of your shirt as he leads you through the parking lot and you swear you’ve never been so excited about the presence of a sad excuse for a tub in your hotel room. A nice warm, tension relieving soak is just what you need right now.

You push through the door just as he unlocks his, immediately discarding waterlogged heels and his sodden jacket. You’ve just begun to pull down the zipper on your skirt when you’re interrupted.

“Can I be of assistance?” His voice comes from the door of the adjoining room—the one you were in too much of a rush to shut upon receiving a call from the local sherriff’s department early this morning. You turn to meet his playful grin, his lidded gaze, and immediately you find yourself playing into his game.

A seductive grin spreads across your lips as you saunter toward him, fingertips working your zipper down tooth by tooth. His gaze falters, falls to your chest, and you arch your back. The zipper gives way just as you reach the door, and his eyes drag their way back up to yours—

Just in time to watch the door close in his face.


	8. Secrets, Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Were you ever going to tell me?"

“Were you ever going to tell me?“

Her voice is small, hesitant.

The tension that has been plaguing you all day finally acknowledged, it’s difficult not to feel uncomfortable. Come five o'clock, you’d figured you’d made it through another day of mundane background checks relatively unscathed. But then she spoke up, and while you’re not entirely certain of what she’s referring to, your heart still sinks to your gut.

"Tell you what?”

Her laugh is humorless—bitter, even. She refuses to meet your eyes, instead busying herself with packing up her briefcase. For a minute, you think she might just leave it at that. But then you catch her watery gaze, your stomach twisting painfully, and stop her movements with a gentle hand and a questioning look.

“Background checks may not be my dream assignment,” she begins, voice gaining confidence as she goes on. “But it sure is enlightening. All these records at my disposal. Birth records, death records…”

Her voice trails off, as if she’s building the courage to continue, and you know you’re wearing your panic face when her eyes meet yours again. While filled with determination, you can also detect the underlying pain.

“Marriage records.”

Shit. The panic seizes your heart now, ice running through your veins. This isn’t how you wanted her to find out. Hell, you had high hopes that she never would, despite the discomfort than lingered whenever Diana was around. But Scully is nothing if not resourceful. You shouldn’t be surprised that she’d covered every base, knowing how little she trusts your ex wife.

Ex wife. God, you hadn’t thought of her as that in years. She’d been your partner, first and foremost. The entire marriage had been a mistake. You remember the desperation you’d felt, the need to please her. You’d had nothing at the time, and Diana had always ensured that she had you right under her thumb. It was an ultimatum—get serious, or she was leaving. In the end, she’d left anyway. You hadn’t bothered with divorce papers—hadn’t even known where to send them to. Technically…

“Scully,” you try, but her arm jerks out from under your touch. The cool air is such a sharp contrast from her warm skin, and you nearly tremble at the shock of it. She’s shrugging on her jacket, movements erratic, and despite being the one that brought this up in the first place, you can tell she’s trying to make a quick getaway. While your heart clenches with panic, anger swells within your gut; a deadly combination.

“Scully, you have to let me explain.”

She raises an eyebrow at that, as if the very idea that she owes you anything is laughable. The exhaustion in her expression is obvious, her cleverly arched brow creasing. The one thing somehow more terrifying than an angry Scully—a resigned Scully. It’s the same expression that haunted your dreams—the very one she wore when she had informed you of her transfer.

“You tried to kiss me,” she whispers, and even through your dread, you have to marvel at how in sync your thoughts are. The room has luckily cleared out by now, the end of another monotonous day somehow more exciting than the Mulder and Scully show, and you’re grateful for the privacy that’s rarely afforded outside of your basement office.

“I didn’t think you remembered,” was all you can think to say, voice tight with emotion. But it doesn’t matter, because as quickly as she’d made herself vulnerable, she’d re-erected her walls. You can see it in her eyes, feel it in the air around you. She’s closing herself off to you again. You want to reach for her, to tear down the fortress she’s built around her heart, but you know her well enough to know she’d reinforced that barrier with steel this time, so as not to let them crack so easily again.

“I refuse to get in the way of another marriage,” she tells you, and before you can even wrap your mind around that, she’s gone.


	9. Secrets, Part 2

You used to have these dreams — nightmares, really. A masculine grunt in your ear; a smooth muscular back beneath your fingertips. Ecstasy just within reach. Daniel hovers above you, and your lips part to gasp out his name, only it comes from the other side of the room. He never slows as you meet his wife’s devastated visage. Guilt and nausea swirl in your gut and you’re sure you’re going to be sick, but everything grows fuzzy and the urge to vomit startles you awake.

It’s been a decade or more since you’ve been plagued by this particular horror. You remember the very moment it the affair turned from new and exciting to panicked and reprehensible. You’d made every excuse in the book up until that point. They had nothing in common, his wife didn’t connect with him like you do, she wasn’t good to him. Everything that a late night visit had refuted. He’d called home earlier that night, excuses for working late on his tongue. You were only so lucky you’d remained at the hospital, rather than giving in and booking a hotel room.

A knock on his office door had you shuffling apart— just enough time for Daniel to put himself back together and for you to grab a book before his wife had entered. She’d greeted him with a kiss and a warm dinner, and in her eyes, there was nothing but love and appreciation. Her questioning gaze flitted in your direction, but you assumed she was none the wiser when she left. For the first time, you were suffocated by disgust and self loathing, and the dreams began.

It was another year before you finally broke things off.

The dream begins as usual tonight. Daniel. You can’t remember the last time you even thought about him — and it certainly was not like this. But he’s hovering above you and his face is buried in your neck, but as his name begins to rip itself from your throat, you hear a different word instead.

“Fox.”

Diana is there, by the doorway, and while this is where the disgust would always wake you up, you find yourself territorial instead. Your steely gaze meets her own as you’re thrown head first into euphoria, never wavering — even as a painfully familiar voice calls out your name. Your fingers smooth through Mulder’s hair possessively, but still she lingers, even as he calls your name again.

You awake covered in sweat, bed sheets in disarray, tears stinging at your eyes. You can still feel the weight of his body — still hear your name on his lips. There’s a pounding in your head and a throbbing between your legs. The pounding grows louder, and through your sleep soaked daze, you finally recognize the noise as knuckles rapping at your door. And there’s your name again, frantic and muffled behind several layers of wood. God, how your neighbors must hate you.

You quickly shrug on your robe and run your fingers through your hair in attempt to appear halfway presentable. But as you open the door and take in his appearance, you find that your efforts are meaningless. His tie hangs loosely around his neck, shirt untucked and hair askew. But above all else, he smells like a bar.

“Mulder,” you sigh tiredly, and there’s a slight stumble to his step as he let’s himself in.

“What did you mean by another?”

It’s been several tense weeks since you learned of his marriage. You’d both tried your very best to forget the emotional altercation. While it had been weighing heavily on your mind and effecting your subconscious, you only assumed that he’d moved past it.

“Mulder, you’re drunk.”

In typical Mulder fashion, he ignores you.

“You said you refused to break up another marriage,” he persists, even as your jaw clenches. It’s funny, you think, how he can keep something like a marriage from you, but still expect personal details from your own life. As if you owed him something, when he has given you absolutely nothing to work with. You’d scold him for his audacity if he smelled any less like a bottle of scotch.

“That’s none of your business,” you tell him coolly.

In his drunken state, he ignores you, instead attempting to list any man you’ve had any contact with over the last six years. How arrogant, you think, that he doesn’t even consider the fact that you’d had a life before him. You want to show him exactly who Dana Scully was before him — the headstrong woman whose focus was on the cause alone; who would have never allowed herself to fall in love with him.

You think back to last month, to a very different Mulder. He’d called you out to a park; an apology of sorts. It made it so easy to forgive him, with his arms wrapped around your waist and his breath on your cheek. It was the first day you’d seen him outside of the office since you’d learned of his marital status. You’d seen the joy in his eyes as he packed bats and baseballs in his car. You could sense it then — his plan to kiss you. You’d nearly let him. But the image of a plain gold band glimmering on his finger floated through your mind. You could nearly feel the cold metal of a probably long ago abandoned ring pressed against the warmth of your cheek, and you’d soon found yourself alone in the solitude of your apartment instead.

His eyelids appear to grow heavy, his words coming out slower and sleepier. As much as you’d love to kick him out, you can’t imagine that he’d get home safely like this. You pull a few blankets and a pillow from your linen closet, and he’s still muttering to himself when you return, though he’s made himself comfortable, shoes kicked off at the end of your couch.

“Get some sleep, Mulder.” He murmurs a sleepy sound of approval in response, and you throw a blanket over his body. “We’ll discuss this tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” he agrees, eyes drifting shut as he snuggles into the cushions. “We’re gon'a figure everything out.”

His snoring before long, and you run your fingers through his already mussed hair before heading back to the comfort of your room.

When you wake in the morning, the apartment is still — notably absent is the deep timber of your partner’s alcohol exasperated snores. The surprisingly neatly folded blankets lying on the end of the couch tells you what you’d already suspected.

He’s gone.


	10. Chapter 10

The drive home from the hospital is quiet; more peaceful than you can ever remember a ride with Fox Mulder being. Usually, it’s three or more hours stuck in traffic, tuning out your partner’s theories and bad jokes. There’s no traffic in the late hour, no bickering over directions – something you can easily attribute to your partner’s drug induced slumber. You say a quick thanks to God for that fact, your mind already loud enough without the added noise. 

He shifts in his sleep, attempting to find as much comfort as possible with his arm in a sling, to no success. Immediately, you’re drawn to the slight pout of his lips – lips that, not one hour ago, were pressed against your own. You can still feel the heat from them, the way they cradled your lower lip between them, and you suppress a shiver. How right it had felt, if only for a moment. It’s almost alarming, how deprived you’d felt the moment he pulled back.

For seven years, you’d robbed yourself of that luxury. There were moments over the years where you’d questioned your will; where you’d nearly caved. The only thing that had given you pause was the knowledge of how quickly you could find yourself in this position – panicked, confused, and utterly addicted. 

The brick mortar of his apartment appears all too soon, the shift of movement rousing him from his slumber. His eyes are glassy as they meet yours, a dopey grin on his lips. You can’t help but return his the smile as you help him from his car. While he’s usually so self-sufficient, you’re thrilled to find that he leans into you more than usual tonight, allows you the satisfaction of caring for him. It’s a bit of a struggle to unlock the door with his extra weight, but you eventually manage, stumbling into his apartment with a huff of laughter. 

He immediately collapses onto the couch with a satisfied murmur, beckoning you as you busy yourself with fixing him a glass of water for his pills. He’s struggling with his brace when you return to him, and with a gentle hand, you cease his movements. Your fingers reach around his neck to loosen the sling, trying to ignore the admittedly disarming grin that’s spread across his lips. Try as you might, you can’t resist a little tap to his chest when you’re finished.

You’re completely unprepared when he covers your hand with his own – when he traps it over his heart – when he leans in and kisses you. 

It’s nothing like the chaste kiss you’d shared at the hospital. Where there was hesitance before, there’s only confidence now. It’s soft, sweet, each brush of his lips stealing the breath from your lungs. A sound somewhere between a gasp and a sigh escapes you, and he uses it to his advantage, his tongue sweeping across your upper lip. 

Blame it on the late hour, or the intoxicating effects of his kiss, but you’re suddenly overcome by a fit of giggles. He grins against your mouth, tries to kiss you through it, but your laughter prevails, and you find yourself pulling away. 

“You weren’t supposed to laugh,” he grouses, lip pouting adorably, and you immediately feel the need to do damage control, lest you hurt his fragile ego. 

“I’m sorry,” you laugh, fingers subconsciously stroking the soft material of his t-shirt. “I don’t mean to. I just – it’s weird.” At his look, you back peddle. “In a good way.” He raises an eyebrow, and you roll your eyes at your own inability to communicate. “I like it.”

He seems to take pity on you then, lifting your hand and pressing it to his lips. You’re gut is immediately invaded by butterflies. It isn’t the first time he’s done this, but it’s never felt so intimate. 

“It is weird,” he finally agrees, and you breathe a sigh of relief. “I fell in love with my best friend.” It’s as if he’s testing the words, as if he’s saying them to himself, blissfully unaware of the fact that your heart has stopped. 

“Oh,” you breathe, your heart kick-started back into action, hammering away in your chest. You can feel his body tense up next to yours; see the panic in his eyes before you even look back up at him. Sure enough, he’s wearing the most exaggerated version of his panic face that you’d ever seen. 

“It’s okay,” you rush to comfort him, attempting to use humor as a way to deflect. “I won’t use anything you say on vicodin against you.” 

To your surprise, he doesn’t bite, seeming almost frustrated by the accusation. “I wasn’t on anything last week when that guy from accounting flirted with you and I wanted to throttle him.”

You almost laugh at the memory – the face of poorly disguised rage still fresh in your mind. But you’re too thrown by his confession to do much else but nervously lick at your lips. He twitches.

“I certainly haven’t been drugged the last seven years of watching you do that and feeling like I’m going to explode if I don’t kiss you.”

You unconsciously sweep your tongue across your lips again and he grunts, and just like that, he’s kissing you again. It’s much less funny this time – his good hand tangled in your hair and his tongue probing at your lips. It’s seven years of love and tension and unspoken desire, poured out into a collision of lips and teeth and tongue. 

When you find the ability to pull back, you’re practically in his lap, his heart nearly beating out of his chest beneath your hand. 

“Mulder,” you whisper reverently, and he somehow manages to pull you even closer, until your hearts are syncing up in a language of their own. 

“I fell in love with my best friend, too.”


	11. Blushing

“Two words, Scully,” he says by way of greeting. Just like that, you’re immediately exhausted. At your raised eyebrow, he continues. “Lizzie Borden.”

“Took an axe,” you recite, dryly. “Gave her mother forty wacks.”

“When she saw what she had done, she gave her father forty-one.” The file slides across the desk as you take a seat, shedding your jacket in the process. How he manages so much energy this early in the morning is the biggest X‐File of them all.

You briefly scan the document, a sigh punctuating the folder’s closing.

“Ghosts, Mulder?”

“Ah, but not just any ghosts. Murderous ghosts. Parricidious ghosts.”

At your look, he proceeds, only growing more animated with each word.

“It’s all in the file, Scully. The Lizzie Borden Bed and Breakfast—”

“It’s a B&B now?”

“Several guests report unexplained noises, the sensation of being touched, apparitions, a presence in the room…”

“And?” His face falls, as if he still expects you to believe after all these years of working together. “Mulder, it’s pseudoscience. It’s the power of suggestion. While a home with such a violent history may be unsettling, it does not mean it’s haunted.”

“But the reports—”

“The reports, Mulder, come from naive individuals who have paid by the hundreds to hear a few ghost stories before bed.”

“The EVPs—”

“Don’t get me started on EVPs. The science alone—”

“Ooh,” he drawls, leaning into your space until you can feel the heat radiating from his body. “Talk nerdy to me, Scully.”

“Mulder,” you warn, but the admonishment is weak even to your own ears, your cheeks growing hot at his proximity. His masculine scent assaults your senses — a mixture of irish spring and what lies beneath.

“You’re blushing.”

“Am not,” you mutter petulantly, and he let’s out a low chuckle as he finally backs off, eyes glinting with mischief.

“Fall River, Massachusetts. Our flight leaves at 3pm sharp.”

“Don’t tell me—”

“I’d say a bed and breakfast is a step up from our usual accommodations, wouldn’t you?”


	12. Breathless

You’re shrouded in darkness when you come to, a sharp, piercing noise in your ear. For a moment, you worry you’ve lost all use of your senses. But the black fades away, first to blinding white, and then all you can see is the sky above. You quickly take stock of the situation — realize that you’re lying flat on your back, with something heavy weighing you down.

Moist, salt scented air forces it’s way into your mouth, inflating your lungs. The ache in your ribs is exacerbated with each rise and fall of your chest, but notably absent is the burning sensation that you’d expected to come with it — the sticky surge of blood pooling from the source of the blow.

All at once, it comes back to you — the suspected psychic who turned out to be just your garden variety psychopath, the pursuit, your partner’s voice sounding far away as a gun appeared in your peripheral vision, the bulletproof vest you’d had the forethought to strap yourself into. The sigh of relief leaves you sputtering against warm, wet lips. Mulder. His body covers yours as he attempts to resuscitate you needlessly. You’d blacked out; clearly had the wind knocked out of you, and in typical Mulder fashion, he’d panicked.

Your shirt is completely unbuttoned, collar down to your elbows, restricting movement. You want to look down, to see the damage to your vest, but Mulder’s weight continues to hold you down as he frets over you, examining you for less obvious injuries.

“Mulder,” you manage to wheeze out, each breath feeling like a punch to the chest.

“Jesus, Scully,” he grits out, but makes no attempt to move. “Are you okay?”

You suck in another slow breath, willing your lungs to fully inflate, to no avail. “I can’t breathe.”

“Help is on the way. You took a slug to the chest. Probably broke a rib or two. You’re lucky, all things considered.”

“No,” you groan, “I can’t breathe with you on top of me.”

He’s off of you within seconds, offering a sheepish little grin, one that you can’t help but return. While you’re finally able to inflate your lungs fully, you find that the ache in your chest has only worsened without the pressure that the weight of his body had offered.

“Did you hit your head?” he asks, as if the thought had just occurred to him. While you’re exhibiting no symptoms of a head injury, you can’t as well rule it out in your condition. It had been your first assumption, after all, the notion of Mulder’s mouth covering your own seeming too fantastic to be reality.

You huff out a laugh; gasp through the pain. “It would explain a lot.”

Heat rises in your cheeks when you realize you’d spoken aloud, and you’re suddenly pondering the plausibility of a concussion. And, as if he himself can read minds, a shiteating grin spreads across his lips. Through pain and exhaustion and fading adrenaline, you still manage to roll your eyes.

“Not the worst way to regain consciousness?”

From worried to arrogant in 2.5 seconds. You think you might have to add whiplash to your list of injuries. Sirens approach, and you’re not sure whether to curse or applaud the ambulance’s timing. You’re surrounded in moments — a spinal board being slid underneath you, blood pressure cuff squeezing uncomfortably. He’s right there when they’re wheeling you toward the truck, relaying the course of events and ensuring that they’re aware of which pain medications you’re allergic to.

“Mulder,” you murmur, tugging at his sleeve. His hand grips yours, and the moment begs for you to have the last word. “Ask me when I haven’t just been shot.”

The contact breaks as you’re loaded into the vehicle, but you’re able to catch a glimpse of the grin on his face as the ambulance pulls away.


	13. Chapter 13

You’ve become accustomed to the sensation of adrenaline rush over the years, of a level of panic that seizes your chest. But nothing prepares you for this — for the sick way your stomach drops, the sensation that you may actually vomit out your own heart as it leaps into your throat.

Up until now, you’d been having an uncharacteristically pleasant morning. You’d awoken to an empty bed, but the sheets were in disarray and your boxers were on the floor and the taste of your partner still lingering on your lips was enough to overshadow your morning breath. She was gone— without a trace, without so much as a note. Yet, you were oddly at peace. No matter how hard she tried to run, you know that there’s no escaping last night. Seven years of longing and tension come to a head. It was inevitable. As was a repeat performance.

You’d stopped for one of those ridiculous soy lattes (no sugar), even picked her up one of those giant blueberry muffins with the sugar drizzled on top that she’d pretend not to care about for all of twenty minutes before nonchalantly reaching for it. All choices had lead her to you. She’d all but said it herself. You wanted to make sure she didn’t regret it for a second.

You hadn’t realized you’d been holding your breath until you hear her voice on the other side of the basement door. She wasn’t hiding, wasn’t transferring to Utah. But then a male voice joins and she’s giggling and you’re fairly certain you’re about three seconds from choking on your own heart.

You recognize him the moment you open the door. Craig, from forensic accounting. The world’s most boring person with the world’s most boring job. Any other day, you might have shrugged it off. You’d inject yourself into the conversation, make him feel awkward and out of place, until it was just business as usual. Scully would scoff, roll her eyes, but that pleased little grin would remain.

Except now, you’re struck by the vision of a heavily pregnant Scully. Two-point-five kids, golden retriever— the works. This was the kind of man a woman settles down with. You’ve robbed her of that luxury; of every luxury.

Your appearance hasn’t gone unnoticed, two sets of eyes gazing at you questioningly. You offer a tight smile and a casual greeting, allowing your strong presence to make this intruder uncomfortable. It works, and within minutes, Criag is backing out of the office.

“Just give it some thought, Dana,” he begs, in lieu of goodbye.

Dana. You can’t help but scoff, even as she nods politely. Her eyes bore into the back of your skull as you busy yourself in the filing cabinet. You can’t quite bring yourself to meet her gaze, the image of her body writhing in ecstasy still so fresh in your memory.

“What was that about?”

Your noncommittal hum is shrouded in false innocence, and you can feel her eyes rolling without so much as glancing at her.

“Just didn’t know you and Craig were so close,” you mutter, shuffling through folders. S. Sasquatch. S. Scully, Dana. You try not to consider just how thick that one is— the fact that it wouldn’t exist at all were she not saddled with you in the first place.

“Close?” She laughs dryly, studies you. “Jesus, Mulder. Are you—?” You finally meet her gaze, see the amusement tugging at her lips. “Why are you so jealous?”

Refusal is your first instinct, but that cleverly arched eyebrow stops you right in your tracks. As much as she always loves to call you out on your bullshit, she’s never straight out acknowledged your jealousy. But she looks almost smug right now, and dammit if you don’t want to kiss her with everything in you.

“You’re mine,” you find yourself growling out. “I don’t share.”

Her eyes flash with something dark and you’ve just begun to wonder which of your vital organs she’ll be stabbing her stiletto into, when you recognize the expression on her face. It’s the same look she wore not ten hours prior, crawling into your bed, as bold and decisive as you’ve ever seen her.

She’s stalking closer and suddenly your tie is between her fingers and your mouth is dry, and the same coconut scented hair you’d cried your release into last night permeates your senses. Her eyes never leave your chest, which rises and falls rapidly with each breath. Here you thought that this tension would’ve disappeared after finally giving into your carnal urges. But she’s so coy and her cheeks are rosy and she smells so damn good, and it feels like there’s another decade of sexual tension between the two of you at once.

“Last night,” she begins, and you wouldn't have thought it was possible, but her cheeks flush even darker. “Did I give you any indication that I was interested in being shared?”

Her eyes are several shades darker when they meet your own—a deep cobalt that you immediately lose yourself in. You shake your head dumbly in response. There’s a soft pat to your chest, and then she’s gone, sitting at the desk and sifting through piles of neglected paperwork.

She’s seamlessly slipped back into work mode, scolding you over lost expense reports and illegible case notes. But when your eyes meet, there’s a playful glimmer lying in wait—an unspoken promise of tonight.


	14. Confession

It’s been nearly three months since his impulsivity had led him to the Bermuda Triangle—had nearly drowned him and left him to die of exposure. Weeks upon weeks of those three little Vicodin induced words eating at you. They took up residence in the back of your mind, wandering to a forefront at the most inconvenient of times. They’d burned their way through your heart as a bullet tore through your abdomen—the last words you’d heard before blacking out.

They’d begun to fade over time, the sound of his voice as he’d made his confession almost entirely out of memory now, no matter how many late nights you’d tried to recall the sincerity in his tone. It was for the best, you’d told yourself—you could move beyond it, no longer torment yourself.

As it turns out, you didn’t have to torture yourself. At 2am on a quiet Saturday night, he’s more than happy to do it for you.

You’ve barely knotted the sash on your robe before he’s spilling into the door, before the words are spilling out on a whiskey soaked breath. Blame it on the late hour, or the arduous year, but the tears are stinging your eyes within seconds.

“Dammit, Mulder.”

You want to sound angry, to sound stern. You want him to realize what he’s done and go crawling back to whatever bar he came from with his tail between his legs. But his glassy eyes are blinking at you innocently and your voice is far more tremulous than you’d intended. Your name is a harsh whisper on his lips, your cheek smooth against his calloused fingers. It’s reverent, the way he touches you, but his eyes are still glossed over with intoxication. It would be all to easy to sink into his embrace—to let him love you the way he claims to. It’s only the scent of alcohol that allows you to come to your senses.

You’re shoving at his chest even as he reaches for your waist and the sound of his voice is absolutely heartbreaking, but you refuse to cave.

“You can’t keep doing this,” you scold him, and he has the nerve to look confused. “You can’t just say these things, Mulder. These words—they have meaning. They have ramifications. They don’t go away once you’ve sobered up.”

There’s a flash in his eyes—a renewed vigor. The slurring of speech tossed aside, and you can’t help but wonder if he’s as inebriated as he’d put on. His words are slow, deliberate. They sink their way into your bones, your blood, the very essence of your being.

“This isn’t the whiskey talking. This is me, Scully. This is us.”

You allow him to lace his fingers between your own, his gaze hopeful, yours contemplative. Try as you might to stay here, in the present with him, you can’t help but consider the recent turn of events. You’re stuck by a similar image—of his hand entwined with another women’s, just months prior. The same sick feeling stirs in your gut—the very same nausea you’d felt upon discovering his new bedroom furniture last week.

“Diana,” is all you manage to get out, and the gentle tug of your hand brings your gaze back to his own. Even through the haze, you see his truth—his sincerity. Your eyes flutter shut as you allow yourself a moment to ground yourself, and when you open them again, you’re met with six years worth of devotion.

“Is in the past,” he finishes, and suddenly he’s close enough to feel the rise and fall of his chest against your own.

“Six years together, Scully,” he grins, and you feel his breath on your lips with every word. “When have I ever steered you wrong?”

You can’t help it—you scoff. The laughter from his body shakes you own, and before long, you’re joining him. You’re near delirious, from lack of sleep and abundance of Mulder. His forehead presses against yours and his fingers tug at the sash of your robe, and you’re powerless to resist the lure of his grin. Your lips graze his, just barely, before retreating.

A sudden heat floods your cheeks, the implication of your actions setting in. He grins, tugs you a little closer, and you can’t help but to beam at him in return.

“Scully,” he murmurs, lips brushing against yours as he speaks. Your response is little more than a soft hum of acknowledgment. “I love you.”

You’re grinning into the kiss when he leans in again, and you just can’t resist, a huff of laughter against his lips.

“Oh, brother.”


	15. Denial

Deny, deny deny.

It’s something you’ve become accustomed to over the years– your mother’s knowing looks, your sister’s insistence after your abduction, your mother’s church friends inquiring about the handsome partner Maggie has been telling them all about. It was an automatic response, like your work e-mail on the weekends. _I am currently out of the office. If this is urgent, please call–_

_We’re just friends. Co-workers. It’s strictly professional._

It’s become unconscious at this point– your denial. But then comes the new millennium and a soft kiss that you could so easily write off as a celebration of tradition between two friends.Yet, you don’t. Instead, you flirt. You invade his space a little more, let him invade yours. You read into his words over, and over, and over.

_The world didn’t end._

So many double meanings, and regardless of how you’ve tried to spin it, you’re struck by the implication that had the sky come falling down at that very moment, he wanted to spend his very last moment engaged in a lip lock with you. You can think of one better way, as you fret over him in his apartment– his bed inviting and his eyes dark and serious and seductive. Instead, you hand him a pain killer and pull yourself away.

 _Just friends_ , you think, and this time, it sounds like a crock of shit even to your own ears.

Winter fades to spring and your relationship blooms along with the cherry blossoms. Weekends are spent on his couch, half drunk beers and movies in the background, an all too casual arm slung over your shoulder or, on that one occasion where he’d had one too many beers, around your hip.

But then you’d made that fatal error– one that very well could’ve been the end of your newly discovered relationship. You’d had so much to lose, so much that you hadn’t truly contemplated before running off. You’d tried to tell yourself that Mulder did this kind of thing all of the time; that it was hypocritical of him to be upset when you did the same. But you’d lost your favorite suit to the smell of smoke, perhaps even lost this thing between the two of you before it had a chance to truly begin.

You’d taken a vacation–tried to gain a little perspective. While he hadn’t followed, he’d called almost every step of the way. And as lighthearted as he’d sounded, you couldn’t help but wonder if this was him checking in, making sure you weren’t repeating mistakes. The trust you’d so carefully built over the last seven years, and more so over these last four months, appeared to be hanging on by a thread.

So when he began to speak of crop circles and London, you were unable to quiet your mind long enough to pay attention. You couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps you’d made a mistake in choosing this life. He went to London alone, little more than his pity to keep him company.

As it turns out, you’d made the right choice. The man you’d so long ago thought of as the love of your life, you’d stumbled upon, laid up in a hospital bed. As much as you’d ached to fall into old routine–to escape the adversity of this life you’d chosen, you found yourself struggling to remember just how long it had been since this man had so much as crossed your mind. There was a very specific twist of your gut when you realized just how long it had been. Seven years. An emptiness Daniel could have never filled, overflowing with Mulder.

When he returns, empty handed, you tell him stories of fate, of two separate paths, and you wonder just where the other Dana Scully would be right now, if the void she’d felt in her life would’ve swallowed her whole. But with a warm body next to you and a full heart, the deep timbre of his voice soothes you to sleep, and separate paths couldn’t be further from your mind.

You awake to a warmth bleeding through your stockings– a gentle hand lifting them onto the couch. He murmurs an apology, tries to soothe you back to sleep. But all traces of slumber have disappeared with your hesitance, and the collar of his shirt is in your fist, his mouth soft an inviting against your own. Where you’d expected some awkwardness, some desperation, there’s nothing but languidness and control. You waste precious little time, the tension of nearly a decade building to the point of no return.

He’s hot and huge beneath you, the sensation of being full of him almost more than you can bear. But above all else he’s gentle and loving, letting you lead the way. His hands stroke your thighs, feeling the muscles work beneath the skin as you move above him. Your release is seven years in the making, the rough resonance of his voice all the encouragement you need.

When you come back to your body, he’s whispering words of love and gratification, and you’re wondering if the notion of _just friends_ had ever been even remotely realistic.


	16. One Breath

The phone rings—the call you’ve been dreading. For a moment, you consider letting it ring, consider living in blissful ignorance. But Scully deserves better from you; deserves to be properly mourned. The voice on the other line is tear filled, calls you Fox, and you brace for an impact that never comes.

You make a desperate attempt to keep your cool, uncertain that this isn’t some sort of trick—some sort of ploy to build you up and let you down; to finally break you once and for all. But the thought that Scully is out there alive, warm and awake and breathing on her own, it fills you with a long forgotten faith.

You take one last look around your apartment, at the chaotic wreck that surrounds you. The implication of what you’d nearly done hits you all at once, takes your breath away. Unwilling to allow yourself to linger on that thought, you pick up your coat and head toward the door, one of the many VHS tapes lying on your floor catching your attention. You grab it on the way out the door.

×××

You’re not sure what you’d expected when arriving at the hospital, but she’s sitting up in bed. She’s talking to the nurse, eating lime jello, open in her disgust as she pushes the bowl to the furthest corner of the tray. Gone are the tubes, the wires, the whirring noise of machines breathing for her.

You could stand there forever, just watching, observing, seeing her warm and alive. But those beautiful blue eyes that just hours ago were taped shut follow the nurse as she exits the room, and fall upon you. The smile that spreads across her lips stuns you, nearly brings you to your knees.

The version of her name that tumbles from your lips is so soft, awed, reverent, and her cheeks glow in response. You can’t imagine how you look to her right now, your eyes sunken in and red rimmed, your hair overgrown. You’d stopped bothering with something as trite as self care since she’d been returned.

“Mulder.”

She sounds so pleased, so delighted to see you. It spurs you into motion. You kiss her forehead in greeting, her cheeks. Your lips are on hers before you can make the conscious decision for yourself, every ounce of desperation you’ve felt over the last several months seeping into the kiss. Your tongue traces her lips, her teeth, the roof of her mouth— committing her to memory. She’s soft and warm and alive against you, her fingers weaving through your hair.

A throat clears behind you, a whispered murmur and a giggle. You can’t bring yourself to pull back too far, your eyes darting briefly before Mrs. Scully and Melissa, before being drawn down to the bag in your hands.

“I, uh, I brought you a present. Superstars of the Superbowl.”

It sounds lame even to your own ears, but she grins, heat rushing to her cheeks. “I knew there was a reason to live.”

You’d always been afflicted with a dark sense of humor. Even still, you want to shake her, to tell her not to joke. Mere minutes ago you’d been anticipating the call that would be the final initiative to eat a bullet. The thought of living in a world where she didn’t exist more than you could bear.

You force a grin instead, make a joke about it being the least provocative tape in your collection. Your thumb presses against her pulse, feeling the steady thrumming beneath her skin. “If you’re feeling up to it, maybe I’ll swing by and we can pop it in later.”

There’s a guffaw somewhere behind you, and you make a mental note to ask Scully just where in the hell her sister came from. She’s really blushing now, and you marvel at the healthy glow for a moment before pressing your lips to her knuckles and standing.

“Mulder?”

She looks almost shy, tugging at the ends of the blanket in her lap, and you have to resist the urge to rush back to her bedside and kiss her again, audience be damned.

“I’ll see you later?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” you promise, trying to avoid the two protective gazes that follow as you duck out the door, fingering the cross in your pocket.


	17. Chapter 17

Sex. It had never been about a means to an end for you. It wasn’t just release. It was physical and emotional connection above all else. And while it felt good, release just wasn’t ever something that reliably happened for you. You’re a woman of science. You know the details, the statistics. The majority of women don’t achieve orgasm through penetration alone. You happen to be one of them. Admittedly, it could have something to do with your inability to relinquish control. But it wasn’t something you ever gave much thought to.

And then came Fox Mulder. For years, you’d considered the implications of his oral fixation—of his single mindedness. You may have even imagined it yourself late at night, chasing release.

You were wildly unprepared.

The new year brings gentle exploration, murmured words of love and appreciation and disbelief. He’s intense, but so much more gentle than you could’ve imagined. Sweet and loving and so very attentive. You can tell when he’s close—the punctuated thrusts of his hips, the choked, urgent gasps, the pad of his thumb pressing against your clit.

It’s all too much, and you find yourself pulling his hand away, fingers interlaced and palms pressed together. It’s your whispered words of encouragement that finally do him in, and the sensation of being filled with his release is so much better than you could’ve ever imagined your own to be.

He stills, forehead to your shoulder, your fingers toying with the damp hair at his nape. Orgasm or not, you’ve never felt more satisfied. The exhaustion consumes you all at once. Your eyes are just beginning to flutter shut when you feel insistent lips caressing your neck, your breasts. It isn’t until he’s nibbling at the sensitive skin at your hip that you realize what he’s doing. You’re suddenly very much awake.

“Mulder—”

He silences you with a nip to the inner thigh, his grin spreading at the involuntary sound that escapes your lips. The grip on his hair tightens as his full lips tease your labia. With others, it had always seemed like a reluctant chore. No one had ever argued when you’d directed their attention. There’s a hum of disapproval, though, when you try to pull him away. His oral fixation at work. You try to relax instead, to enjoy the sensation of his skilled tongue tracing your slit, lapping at fresh arousal.

The sensation is heavenly. You can’t help but whimper as he brushes your clit with his nose. But you’re wound so tight, the pressure simultaneously too much and not enough. Unsurprisingly, it’s not going to happen, the tension in your body too great to ignore. You feel a pang of guilt, knowing first hand just how determined he is. Your fingers tug at his hair again.

“Scully,” he questions, eyes dark, hair in disarray. He’s impossibly attractive like this, his lips glossy with your arousal. You have half a mind to fake it, heartbroken by the thought of disappointing him. But your entire foundation has been built on the truth. You refuse to start this off on any other foot.

“I just—it doesn’t always happen for me.”

Where you expect defeat, there’s nothing but understanding and, to your surprise, determination. His chin comes to rest against your hip, his hand reaching up to hold onto your own. You grant him a small, grateful squeeze, and he surprises you by bringing your combined hands down between your legs.

“Mulder,” you try, voice shaking.

“Show me,” he all but begs, voice rough and gentle all at once. You’re powerless to resist. The palm of his hand presses against the back of yours, his middle finger following your own through your slick. A slow build up is unnecessary after his attentions, your finger circling your clit. His forehead has come to rest on your hip, eyes focused on your movements. Miraculously enough, the tension fades, and you can feel yourself building towards something.

You halt your motions even as he encourages you forward, assuming you’re throwing in the towel. Instead, you grasp his hand, slipping it further down and sliding two of his fingers inside of yourself. His resounding groan has your fingers flying back to your clit, movements hastening. Heat pools in your lower belly, hips bucking towards his fingers. His tongue swipes along the length of your slit as his fingers press against your front wall and just like that, you’re seeing stars beneath your lids, a voice that you hardly recognize as your own calling out to him.

When you come back to your body, he’s wrapped around you, sleepy words so reverent, so awed and complimentary. His words fade into deep, even breaths as the sun just begins to creep through the curtains—the dawning of a new day, a new millennium, a new life. 


End file.
